Idle Hands

You know what they say about idle hands. Devil’s best friend, and all that. My hands are never idle, constantly occupied, twitching with some imagined duty. The devil has no place within my fingers, no hellfire comes from my nails as I strip them down so near to the bone. Teeth gnawing at the strips of loose skin that hang listless from my hands, enamel grinding together in tandem with every tick and tock of the clock.

I do not allow myself to rest, to sink into that sloth that invites sin. As long as I keep moving, keep twisting and untwisting my fingers as if wringing out a damp cloth until it becomes as dry as bones worn down by the desert sands of time, I will stay safe, protected from the darkness within my skull. Tearing at the skin around my nails, picking at the flesh of my lips, anything to escape the sinful thoughts that plague me, the devil that has taken residence within my ribcage and waits, sly and oh so patient for any shred of inactivity to prey upon.

I’m in my room, knuckles white around the leather bound Bible, gold leaf lettering on thick brown covers, thin pages so easily torn by careless fingers. I do not tear it. Each sheet is lifted and set down with a close precision, creases smoothed out and pages never dog-eared. It is knowledge and power wrapped in synthetic skin, a testament to the longevity of faith. It is holy, innocent, beautiful, precious. All the things that I am not. I’m staring at it, trying not to notice the shadow upon my wall, a girl’s figure that hovers in the corner of my eye, tempting me to look. Forcing the hairs on my neck to stand at attention, the darkness that causes my eyes to drift, ever so slightly, to her. To the delicate curve of her body, the slight part of her lips, the wisp in her hair that I want to smooth down with my fingers. Her name is Emily Baker. A good name, a holy name. The kind of name that makes preachers smile and nod, think to themselves her parents must be so proud. Not a name like mine, a name that makes teachers cluck their tongues and passerby turn their heads away in shame. For once I want someone to look at me, to smile the way that they smile at Emily. To look at me the way I look at Emily.

But I cannot look, cannot allow myself to be tempted, cannot allow myself to disobey everything my parents taught me. Cannot cave to the vile desires that lurk within me, Lucifer rattling his chains, constant noise in my head.

The girl’s shadow is gone; she was never here. Never here. She is a mere personification of my ultimate sin, a mere projection of my guilty conscience.

Guilt, what is guilt? Is it the frantic beating of a heart, the dry patch on the tongue, the picking of skin, the fear of idle hands? Is it the shadow on the wall that looks a little too much like her, or the magnified voice of Father Harry every Sunday, the itch of your stiff dress as you sit, hot and uncomfortable, in the cold wooden pew?

Idle hands are the devil’s best friend, and for that if nothing else I will never allow my hands to be idle, throwing myself into every task, tapping mindless rhythms on the school desks, picking at my skin, fists clenching and unclenching, hair pulled out one thread at a time, hands smoothing down the pages of my pocket Bible as I read and reread the lines, a futile attempt to convince myself of my own innocence. If I read them, maybe I’ll believe that they are true. Maybe I will find answers in old quotations, reprieve in these pages of history. Maybe there will be solace in the movement of my hands, the desperate movement of my eyes raking across the page. Maybe if I reread it again I’ll find what it is I’m missing, the secret to normalcy, to quelling the cruel desires that flood my heart. All that matters is that I keep reading.

Because if I allow myself to slow, if my hands cease for even a moment, then my thoughts will move to her, the curve of her body, the peace in her smile, the tenderness in her words. She is holy and good and beautiful, and I’m just the girl who sits in the back pew in a futile attempt to escape my shame. She and I are too different.

And, in all the ways that matter, too much the same.